We are not temporary
by yourvoicestillringing
Summary: In which Jaime sees his own face reflected back at him for the first time, and finally believes in the permanence of it all. Post-war Jaime/Sansa.


_Sansa Stark and Jaime Lannister have taken control of my heart and this is the result._

* * *

When he holds his son and daughter for the first time (seated, of course, so he can hold one tiny bundle with his complete left arm, and secure the other between his chest and his not-so-whole right), his first thought is mostly centered on disbelief that he is exactly fifty per cent responsible for the creation of not only one but _two_ perfect little creatures. Twenty perfect fingers, twenty perfect toes, four beautifully perfect eyes, two perfectly formed noses, two perfect heads of soft, downy tufts of hair.

Of course, he can't publicly recognise the newborns as his own. Officially, they are Children of the North, born of ice and snow, a symbol of the marriage of their brave mother to the land and her commitment to the future of the North and its people. And that thought momentarily makes the bitter taste of his own unimportance, of his temporariness rise in his throat like bile (how can he possibly keep hold of everything he has found!?) but he pushes it away just as quickly. Sansa would never... no, Sansa knows that his life, his reason for living is so very intricately, inextricably tangled with her own.

Gazing at his infant twins, he does not allow himself to think of the last woman he bound his heart to. He doesn't want to taint this moment with thoughts of the relationship between the only other set of twins he has known. These twins who lie so comfortably in his arms are not, he fiercely hopes (no, _vows),_ destined for that kind of misery, that kind of loneliness. They will know the love of their mother and father and will not have only each other to turn to for solace and comfort.

He does, however, allow himself to realise that this is the first time he's ever been given the opportunity to immerse himself in the absolute perfection of any of his sons or daughters. In the past, he's never stopped to look, never been _allowed_ to look properly at his children, to recognise himself in their features, their expressions, their gestures or mannerisms, and even if he had tried to find himself he'd only see _her _anyway. He'd have relinquished the claim even to his own face.

But these beautiful children are his, truly they are. As he commits every square inch of them to memory, he can see Sansa there too, of course, in the sunset-red of Aelinor's hair, in the shape of Lucias' mouth, but this only serves to make his own contributions easier for him to distinguish. Lucias' jaw and pale yellow hair are all Jaime, and Aelinor's eyes are already getting greener by the day.

(For one fleeting second, he allows himself the satisfaction and triumph of seeing only himself and not Cersei reflected back at him. Then her name is gone again before he can begin to dwell on her and before the panic can bubble in his stomach, burning his insides like acid. Sansa deserves more than that from him.)

Sansa. _Sansa. _The mother of his children, the woman (for that's what she is now, in the eyes of Jaime and all of Winterfell, in the eyes of all who are fortunate enough to call her their Queen) who provided him with purpose, who _still _provides him with purpose. _Don't put me on a pedestal Jaime_, she has warned him with a cool, soft palm against his cheek, _we held each other together_. And she is right, of course. They, who had lost so much in this world, who had felt their resentment turn reluctantly to respect, then to friendship, and slowly, _finally_, to something else entirely, had found in each other the salve that would begin to soothe their wounds, to shrink those gaping holes that threatened to tear them both apart. And Sansa knows that Jaime needs to be a father for the first time in his life, needs to feel the love he has for their children in every facet of his being, needs it to fill him from the tips of his toes to the very ends of his golden hair, to seep into every hurt, every injury, every loss and start to knit him back together from the inside out. She knows because, Jaime thinks, she needs it just as much as he does.

He shifts his focus up towards her. She's reclining on her – _their – _ bed, watching Jaime through eyes weary and half closed but with a lazy, content smile gracing her lips and he knows absolutely that there is nothing temporary about this, nothing temporary at all about Jaime, his Sansa, their perfect twins and what they mean to each other.

* * *

_I haven't done any fandom writing since I was about fifteen. I'm now twenty-three and a tad rusty. So for this reason, reviews are very much appreciated. Thank you x_


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